Someone to Talk To
by EclipseKlutz
Summary: [S1] After deceiving everyone on the island, he needed someone to talk to. She could listen. SayidClaire friendship.


**Someone to Talk To  
_By EclipseKlutz_**

**PG-13  
Drama/General**

**Disclaimer: **I'd be vacationing in Hawaii right now if I owned _Lost_, not freezing my butt off on the opposite side of the equator. Sadly, _Lost _is credited to the brilliant masterminds who write and direct and plot it. Who are they? I'll tell you as soon as I get off my lazy ass long enough to look it up…

**Spoilers: **Takes place during "_Walkabout"_. But will probably reference to episodes in the future or the past.

**A/N: **This is simply an experiment—with the characters, with the island, with _everything_. I'm just going to run down through the list of pairings I like and characters I adore, so expect quite a few randomized fanfics in the near future—that'll probably be better than this one. This _is _my first _Lost_ fanfic, after all.

* * *

"_My tea's gone cold, I wonder why I got out of bed at all  
The morning rainclouds out my window, and I can't see at all  
And even if I could, it would all be gray but your picture on my wall…"  
_**--Dido: **Thank You

* * *

She'd had nothing to do for the past forty minutes other than wander aimlessly and barefoot across the sand and get the grains caught between her toes. Waves curled up and broke across the shore, spraying her with incredibly salty liquid. She didn't mind, though—when she was growing up it had been her goal, her _dream _to venture to the sea.

Unconsciously, she patted her stomach, or the bulge that now resided there. Because of the baby, she hadn't yet had a chance. A little more than half a year before, she'd had the plane tickets and the suitcase packed, but the day before she was scheduled to leave she'd had the brilliant notion to take the pregnancy test.

She'd cried for hours, cowering beneath the gray sheets of their bed. Silently she'd spent the night yelling at and kicking herself for neglecting to take the pill, and then risking it just because they were both finally in the mood. That night she'd hated him for not wearing the goddamn condom, and she'd hated herself for letting him get away with it, but most of all, she'd hated the baby. It'd ruined her chance to put her feet in the cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and stroll across the beach kicking sand into her shoes that would linger there long after she'd returned home.

With a child growing inside of her, it didn't seem responsible to go on a vacation. She'd straightened herself out the next morning, spent an hour in front of the mirror lecturing and patronizing herself before treating herself to a grande chai-crème frappachino at Starbucks. What did she deserve a treat for, though? For getting herself in a situation she couldn't get out of? For giving her spiteful mother yet another reason to hate her? Yeah, great reason for a delicacy…

Claire frowned, kicking a pebble across the sand. There was no point in looking back at her own tendency to be careless and naïve; she was finally at a beach and walking its shores. Another wave licked up against her ankles and withdrew with haste; she watched it silently for a moment before letting out a small sigh.

The rescue boat would come soon, and they'd whisk all of the stranded folk away before starvation or the monster destroyed them. Maybe a plane would see the signal tonight and call for help, maybe…

She spotted Sayid out of the corner of her eye, hunched over the tangle of wires and mechanics that he'd been puzzling over since the group had come back. Before, she'd avoided him, unsure of exactly _what _he was, but then she'd been sitting there, rummaging through the possessions of the dead and she'd found that envelope.

He'd been startled at first when she'd asked him if Sayid was his name, but he'd confirmed it nonetheless. She'd stared for a moment as he took the package from her pale hands and opened it with exaggerated care. She'd watched his eyes light up as he looked down at the photographs in his hand, and then she'd seen his entire expression fall, as he seemed to come to terms with something that had haunted him for a long time.

It'd been then she'd decided that he wasn't a terrorist; that he wasn't some criminal mastermind bent on world domination; that he was simply another person stranded on the island, another person with a past and a future they needed to return to.

And now she stood there, watching him once again from a distance as he fumbled with the wires and gears. With no more hesitation, she approached him.

---------------

The corner of the envelope prodded at his skin through his pocket as he fidgeted, tugging at the cords and toying with the gears in hopes of getting a semi-operational signal. He hardly felt it, though, his mind too fixed on the contraption lying on the sand before him with random pieces and parts spilling out of it. By the mess of spares, he was beginning to wonder if he'd broken it…

Of course, Kate had done a marvelous job at ruining it herself, so he didn't have much left to demolish. But he still had no desire to make the situation worse for himself—the sooner the power was restored the better chance they all had of escaping this island with their lives. This place was a death trap.

It confused and irritated him to no end that some seemed to take pleasure in the fact that they were miles away from civilization in a place where survival was all that truly mattered. Sawyer had taken to robbing the dead of their rightful belongings, a step down from picking fights on the moral scale; and Locke appeared riveted at the fact that he was the only able hunter on the island.

A frustrated groan escaped his throat as he noticed one of the mandatory wires had been scorched and was more likely than not completely useless now. He'd always been good at fixing things and creating things—he'd been a prized officer in the Republican Guard for his skills in both scholarly fields and those of a more morbid state. He'd never taken pride in the last one, though, and he doubted he ever would.

As he pried the wire away from the circuit board someone flopped down beside him. He ignored them; silently hoping they'd go away and leave him at piece with the damned machinery in his hand. No such luck.

"What's that?"

Friendly female voice with an Australian accent. It registered quickly in his head and he set down the stolen radio to face her—it was a habit acquired from the years of training in the Guard to look people in the eyes as they spoke, so he could read their expressions and sometimes even their thoughts.

He frowned, looking down at it with apparent annoyance. He had no will to continue lying, even if for the benefit of those around him, but he had to and he knew it. So, taking a breath he said, "Building a radio—or trying to."

Claire smiled slightly, but it faded as she read his expression, which he'd believed he'd kept carefully neutral. She shook her head, blonde hair fluttering slightly in the tropic breeze as she stated, "No, you're not."

"Maybe," he replied with faux calmness.

She still didn't buy it. "So, what _are_ you building?"

Sayid groaned, not pleased that she was still pressing the matter. "A _radio_."

Claire nodded, seeming to notice that he wasn't keen on discussing what it was he was doing. She hesitated, as though wanting to say something else, yet bit it back.

With a curt nod, and an awkward half-smile, she unsteadily climbed to her feet and made to walk away.

He blamed it on his instinctive reactions when he gently grabbed her hand as she walked by. Startled blue eyes met tired brown eyes as she looked down at him, her whole posture revealing her uneasiness. Finally, he released her hand, muttered his apologies, and let her leave.

**---------------------**

The ceremony was over, the people's names and whatever information related to them had been read, and tears had been shed. The bodies had been piled and the fire lit, and most had turned away with no will to look back.

Claire knew as well as any of the islands self-elected "heroes" did that this signal fire wasn't going to attract attention. They'd been on the island too long to even hope that, yet still they let the fire linger on long into the night.

She frowned, slumping down into one of the incredibly uncomfortable seats they'd managed to rescue from the wreckage of the 747. The fabric was coarse and the stuffing was lumpy, but she supposed it was better than sleeping on the sand. Yawning slightly, she rested her head on the armrest, taking up both adjoining seats as she did so, but she didn't care. No one was going to sit there, anyways.

She zoned out, staring blankly at the people before her-- when they were rescued, she was going to have a _long _talk with that psychic. But maybe, _maybe _he'd served his purpose by now—she sure as hell didn't want to give her baby away to some random family, now. No… this was hers, and it was all she had of home.

Tired, yet not quite willing to sleep, she took her thoughts from what she might do, to the fire raging before her. Others, like her, watched it in silent contemplation, praying that someone—_anyone_—would see it.

She'd been focused in on the way the flames flickered and twirled when a shadow fell across her little niche, startling her enough to jump a bit before looking up. _Sayid_. She didn't relax much at the sight of him, yet moved her legs enough that he could sit down beside her.

"I'm sorry," He stated, cautiously seating himself in the space she'd offered, "for earlier."

Claire offered him something that might have passed for a shrug if it could be seen properly, but here in the darkness with only the flames, she could tell he wouldn't be able to comprehend the movement. "It… it's alright."

He hesitated, "It's not a radio."

"I know," she responded quietly, looking over at him, "You were far too protective for it to be just a radio… what is it?"

"A transmitter--- a radio, in a way. I'm trying to pick up a signal," he told her quietly so not to let the others around hear.

She tilted her head to the side, "Is it working?"

"No," he paused again, as though unsure as to what he could tell her. "It's blocked—there's another signal from the island already."

"There was… _is _someone else here?" Claire inquired. It hadn't surprised her as much as it might to some; this island already seemed to be a tad too coincidental for them to be the only ones inhabiting it.

He looked over at her, reading her expression carefully before looking away and leaning back in his seat, "For sixteen years."

"And why wouldn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Because," he let out an unsteady breath, looking down at his feet, "it seems so hopeless."

"No, not really," Claire responded. "If anything it's just another fact of the island. And… and there's enough of those that it's not hopeless."

"Then what is it?" he asked in a hushed tone, returning his gaze to her.

"Disappointing," She answered honestly. Claire hesitated before adding, "You probably should tell the others…"

He shook his head, "Not all of them would see it that way."

"But they _deserve _to know. Like Hurley said, we're all in this together whether we like it or not."

"And if I were to wait…?"

She bit her lower lip in thought, "And no rescue boat came? They might get suspicious."

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, changing the topic all together as he inquired, "Why were you on the plane?"

"I was… sent," Claire responded quietly. "Why were you?"

"Searching," he stated, pulling the envelope from his pocket and handing it to her. Before he'd never felt as though he could show anyone the pictures, tell anyone the truth, but Claire seemed to listen and understand better than almost anyone else he'd met on the island.

She leaned over to get a better look as he carefully unfolded the envelope and showed her the photographs inside. The photos were grainy and dark, he knew, but they were all he had. Smiling slightly he added, "For her."

"She's pretty," Claire acknowledged, watching the expressions flicker across his face for a moment. "What happened?"

Sayid hesitated once again, this time not out of reluctance and instead from searching his mind for the answer. "I lost her six years ago, and now… now I'm not sure."

She nodded, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder, "How'd you loose her?"

Once more, he paused, looking for the words to explain. After stuttering more than a few times over the starts of a sentence he told her a piece of what happened with Nadia. At Claire's encouraging nod, he found himself continuing the story, and in the end he'd told her everything—the torture, the gun and his leg, and Nadia's escape. He found that she listened patiently, taking it all in, something he was grateful for.

As he concluded his tale, she nodded understandingly, "If—_when _we get off this island, I hope you find her."

"Me too," He mumbled, looking over at her. Motioning at her stomach, he inquired, "Where's the father?"

"Hopefully rotting in hell," she returned, narrowing her eyes.

He frowned sympathetically, getting the general picture and realizing quickly that to press the topic anymore would involve entering strictly forbidden territory, "What are you going to do about…?"

She understood, and patted the bulge in her stomach affectionately, "I'll take a try at raising it, I suppose."

"By yourself?" Sayid responded, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I guess," Claire shrugged, "It's not like I can go anywhere within a million yards of my mum, and my boyfriend's long gone, so, I suppose… yeah, by myself."

A bit away, Kate called out for Sayid, apparently having found the transmitter abandoned amidst the sand. He sighed, climbing to his feet and looking over at Claire one last time, "Thanks… for listening."

She shrugged, "No problem—you're cool."

He nodded, and made his way towards the place where Kate stood, holding the mess of wires and gears in her hand.

In the end, he just needed someone to talk to. For the longest time, he'd had no one but himself.

* * *

**A/N: **First _Lost _fanfic, please keep that in mind while you're reviewing (I _like _reviews!), and I can guarantee that this will probably be my worst one in this section as the better part was written at three in the morning, I had no real inspiration, and I'm new to the characters… 

Please remember—flames are something to make smores and grudges with; constructive criticism is alright, I suppose; and positive feedback is loved and welcomed and will get you imaginary cookies!


End file.
